Page 7

chapter seven

“It’s time to go home, Ian,” James said, rubbing at his temple as he rose stiffly from his desk. Ian Hartridge looked up from the smaller desk they’d set up adjacent to James’s larger one and yawned.

“Yeah, we likely won’t get any more done tonight,” Hartridge conceded from behind the hand he held over his mouth. “Ten missing women in the last three months. That seems like a lot.”

“It does.” James stretched and tidied the piles of files he’d been working on. He hoped some of the missing women had already turned up, and the files just hadn’t been updated. “We’ll have to ask the dentists of all ten for their records and compare the dental impressions from our second victim, see what we come up with.” He wouldn’t approach any of the family members of the missing women until there was more evidence.

But the dentists would likely take their time, and he had a feeling that time wasn’t something they had in abundance. If the two deaths were connected, the man responsible would strike again, of that, he was sure.

Hartridge scraped his chair back and yawned again, then froze, his gaze on someone in the passageway outside James’s office.

They’d left the door open, and James moved around his desk to see who had had such an effect on his constable.

He’d been expecting to see his boss, DI Whetford, lurking outside, but it was DS Galbraith leaning against the wall opposite his door, lighting a cigarette, as if he was waiting for them to come out.

“You looking for me, Galbraith?” James asked, shrugging into his coat and looping a scarf over his head.

He saw Galbraith’s gaze flick to Hartridge and then he straightened and looked directly at James. “Just lighting my fag,” he said, blowing out a stream of smoke. “You were away, weren’t you?”

“For a couple of weeks,” James acknowledged. Galbraith had never said so many words in a row to James since he’d started at the Met eight months ago.

“Well, see you around.” Galbraith directed another quick look at Hartridge, then ambled to the stairs and disappeared through the stairwell doors.

“What’s going on, Ian?” James asked, when the door swung shut with a snick.

Hartridge shook his head. “Nothing. I don’t know what’s up with him.”

He was lying, but James thought it was out of fear and a wish to shield James from whatever it was that Whetford had sucked Hartridge into. Galbraith was obviously part of it, and that was a new and interesting fact. He’d known Whetford was bent for a while, but he hadn’t got a handle on who above or below him was also dodgy.

“When you decide something is going on, come to me any time,” James said. He saw Hartridge look down at his now-cleared desk, cheeks flushed, and when he reached the door, he turned. “Go out the back entrance. Galbraith looked like he expected you to follow him out.” He turned and walked away. His anger at Whetford for drawing Hartridge into what was likely a compromising situation burned in his gut, and he ran down the stairs a little faster than normal, nearly barreling into Galbraith on the last landing before the ground floor.

“Easy.” Galbraith twisted away just in time, and James stopped, forcing himself to keep his face neutral.

He didn’t know what was going on, and until he did, it was better to act oblivious.

“Sorry, thought you were further ahead of me,” he said, easily. He nodded and kept going, feeling Galbraith’s cold eyes on him until he was through the door and out into reception.

He hoped Hartridge had taken his advice and gone the back way, because no doubt the moment the door closed behind him, Galbraith had jogged back up to his office to speak to his constable.

On a sudden whim, he wrapped his scarf a bit higher up his face as he turned through the arches to the back courtyard, and instead of going to where his car was parked, he headed for the building’s rear entrance, keeping close to the wall, deep in the shadows.

Hartridge came out, bundled up in his coat against the light rain that had started falling late this afternoon, head down, shoulders hunched.

“Hartridge.” Galbraith’s shout cut through, and James saw Hartridge flinch, then slowly turn back to face the detective sergeant.

He said nothing, and shrugging off the lack of response, Galbraith waved a hand to motion him under the narrow overhang, out of the weather.

Hartridge took a few steps toward him, but didn’t join him under cover.

“What did you find out?” Galbraith asked.

“Nothing.” Hartridge lifted a shoulder and took a step back. “No one was there.”

“Well keep going back until someone is there.” Galbraith’s tone was short. “Got it?”

“Yes, sir.” Hartridge dipped his chin.

“Good.” Galbraith turned on his heel and went back inside.

James stayed still in the shadows as he watched Hartridge stared for a few moments at the door, and then turn on his heel and hurry out of the Yard.

James was still wet and still wondering what Hartridge had gotten mixed up in when he drew his car up outside Gabriella’s run-down Victorian row house in Notting Hill.

She had a tiny bedsit at the top of two steep flights of stairs, but somehow her place seemed nicer than his own. His two bedroom flat in a much nicer part of town seemed stale and empty, a depressing place to go to at the end of the day.

He and Hartridge had gotten a takeaway of fish and chips while they worked, and he hadn’t realized how late it was until just before he’d left the office. It was with relief that he saw Gabriella’s lights were still on.

“Mr. Detective.”

The voice came from the shadows as he closed his car door.

He thought for a moment it was Solomon, but then Jerome appeared, standing beside the gate that led down the narrow path to the front door.

“Hello, Jerome. How’re things?” James nodded to Gabriella’s neighbor. He was skinny and long-limbed, his shirt and pants both wildly patterned in a way James would have thought couldn’t work together, but somehow, on Jerome, they did. “You going up?”

“I am.” Jerome opened the gate, waved him in. “What’s this I hear about Gabriella getting shocked?”

“Some crazy farmer,” James said. “Doesn’t like getting fines, so he electrified his car.”

“How’d he do that, then?” Jerome asked. “How does he get into the car, if it’s buzzing?”

“Good questions,” James said. He hadn’t had time to think much about it. “He must have a switch under the chassis somewhere so he can turn it off when he wants to get back inside.”

That was something to look out for next time. If there was a next time.

He and Jerome parted ways at the top of the stairs, Jerome going into his flat, and James knocking softly on Gabriella’s door.

She opened it, standing sleepy-eyed in her bathrobe and slippers. “Come in,” she said on a yawn, and stepped back.

A sweet scent enveloped him as he stepped through and he guessed she’d just come out of the bath because when she leaned past him to close the door, he felt the heat of her skin.

He reached out for her as she turned, and pulled her close.

He’d undone his coat as he’d walked up the stairs with Jerome, and she slid her arms underneath it, her head coming just under his chin.

He tightened his hold, astonished at his luck at having this beautiful, extraordinary woman in his arms.

“Hmm. You’re cold,” she said, rubbing her cheek against him. “And working late, by the looks of it.”

A wave of desire hit him, and he suppressed a shudder as he stood holding her, all warm, and sweet-smelling, and sleepy.

She lifted her head and looked up at him. “What is it?”

He kissed her upturned face, a gentle brush of his lips on her forehead, her cheeks and then, finally, her mouth.

She kissed him back, lifting a hand and cupping the back of his neck. It made the fires burn hotter.

Last night he’d been so restless, he’d gone back to the office. Tonight . . . he forced himself to pull away.

She looked up at him, cheeks flushed, eyes languorous.

“You’re beautiful,” he whispered against her temple. Then he set her away from him.

She blinked in surprise, tucked a strand of hair behind her ear, and seemed to get herself together. “Do you want some tea?” she asked, voice a little husky.

He wanted to have sex with her, but because he wasn’t going to do that, at least not tonight, sitting shoulder to shoulder with her on her narrow window seat, sipping tea, would be better than nothing.

He nodded, helping her with the task until they each had a hot mug in hand.

“Did you feel better after you left us?” he asked.

She nodded. “I told Mr. Greenberg what happened, then felt well enough to continue my round.” She took a sip of tea and eyed him over the rim of her cup. “He says the Land Rover is well known around Covent Garden Market. More than just DC Hartridge and I have been shocked. And apparently there’s no law against it.”

James lifted his brows. “I’ll contact the Covent Garden lot, find out what they’ve tried to do against him.” But he’d been worried about the same thing. That there was no law against electrifying your own car.

She yawned, and he put down his mug reluctantly.

“You need to get a good night,” he said.

He got to his feet, and she followed suit, trailing after him to the front door.

“Sorry to bring up work,” she said as he shrugged into his coat, “but Mr. Greenberg said there was another body found—in Hammersmith and Fulham. It’s a different borough, but the place where the body was found is actually really close to the border with Kensington and Chelsea. I wondered if you knew about it?”

James felt the hair rise on his arms. “Was it found at another vacant lot?”

“No, an allotment.” She pulled her bathrobe tighter. “In a ditch some of the gardeners who own lots there were digging to solve a drainage issue. The body was half-buried, and that reminded me of the one I found. That’s what made me wonder if there was a connection.”

“Did Greenberg say how they died? Who they were?”

She shook her head. “He only learned of it last night. He has a map on his wall now, after what happened in the summer, and he marked it with a red pin. He doesn’t know any of the details, just that a traffic warden was called to the scene first, about two days ago now. They were walking by, and the uniform makes people think we’re coppers.”

“Thank you. If you hear anything else, about this body, or any others, let me know straight away.” He tied his coat, wound his scarf on. He would get nothing out of anyone tonight, but tomorrow, first thing, he’d go to Hammersmith and Fulham.

“You think they are connected, don’t you?” Gabriella was looking at him with big, dark eyes.

He forced himself to shrug. “It’s possible,” he said.

But as he ran down the stairs and out into the rain, he was afraid they were.